


Rorikstead... I'm-I'm From Rorikstead.

by dungeoncruller



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Before the Main Quest, Character Study, Gen, Lokir is pathetic, Skyrim Main Quest, horse thievery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 01:29:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18378164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dungeoncruller/pseuds/dungeoncruller
Summary: Lokir has stumbled into a Stormcloak camp... But he'll be fine, right?My take on the events leading up to Lokir becoming a prisoner of the Imperial Legion.





	Rorikstead... I'm-I'm From Rorikstead.

**Author's Note:**

> Just trying to get back into writing, and I've always had a soft spot for that useless sweetroll of a horse thief anyways...
> 
> Maybe I'll make it a series?

It had been quite late when Lokir found himself on the outskirts of what appeared to be a Stormcloak encampment hidden among the rocky foothills. Daedra-damn his rotten luck! If there was nothing more aggravating than finding himself stumbling blindly into the bloody bushes, it was winding up stumbling blindly into a bloody Stormcloak camp in said bushes. He dropped immediately to the ground, intent on making himself the smallest visual target possible before taking closer stock of the dreadful situation he had found himself in. 

Somehow, despite all odds, he had managed to avoid detection of the nearest soldier, a young-looking lad of obvious Nordic blood, who keep shooting sidelong glances at his fellows across the clearing. Judging by his posture, and the miserable set of his features, he was obviously jealous of their comfortable positions around the campfire. Even in the poor lighting, Lokir could easily make out the deep blue colouring of his sash, confirming the soldier’s stance in the civil war. The shifting of his arms caused his weapons to glint in the moonlight, Lokir’s eyes widening and throat swallowing unconsciously at the sight of the wicked pair of ax heads.

Clearly he had once again made a wrong turn, Lokir berated himself. Despite his constant consultation of his map, dog-eared and faded though it was! Then again, such things were often found much more helpful if one knew how to actually read, a problem he often found himself in, woefully reminded of how he had skipped out on his lessons as a boy. By his best reckoning, it had been nearly a week since he’d left Riften. But, if the heavy presence of Stormcloaks was any indication, he still hadn’t managed to find his was out of the Rift, much less the Hammerfell border.

Lokir ran his hand through his limp, stringy hair, scowling bitterly as his fingers snagged in the ragged ends. It had been a necessary sacrifice for his escape from the Riften sewers, but one he regretted immeasurably, much like his decision to enter the sewers themselves. Chewing at his bottom lip, he evaluated his surroundings as much as he could in the dim light before scurrying back against a large boulder. Crawling over it and stumbling into a scraggly bit of brush, Lokir found himself face-to-face with a large pair of soft brown eyes.

The horse snorted at Lokir, just as startled by the man’s sudden appearance as the man was of her being there. Another shaggy head lifted up behind her, giving Lokir a once-over before dropping back down. Nothing new or exciting, the horse thought, just another two-legs poking around and disrupting his sleep.

The beginnings of an idea were slowly forming in Lokir’s head as he looked into the mare’s eyes, and it reached full realization as he took note of only a loosely tied lead keeping the beast in her place. Scarcely believing his sudden change of luck, he fumbled the knots and untied the horse. Giving it a second thought, he undid the other horse as well, figuring if both took off, he’d raise his odds of escaping on the mare without being caught. Glancing back over to the soldier, he confirmed the lad was once again staring longingly at the fire before he took action.

Scrabbling up onto the mare’s back with all the grace of a mudcrab on ice, Lokir maintained his seat for all of two seconds before the beast reared and all Oblivion broke loose.


End file.
